


An Unexpected Integration

by wilma_de_worde



Series: A Thousand Apologies [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AKA the best kind, Babies, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, I know what you're up to Gatiss, Inappropriate things happen in the 221B loo, It basically never happens, John finds Sherlock saying heartfelt things very arousing, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Naked Cuddling, Parenthood, Parentlock, Pillow Talk, Surrogate Pregnancy, That's why we still haven't seen it, Toddlers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:43:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1841347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilma_de_worde/pseuds/wilma_de_worde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>COMPLETE.  A rare, quiet night at Baker Street leads to a conversation about the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Proposal (noun)  
> The act of offering or suggesting something for acceptance, adoption, or performance.

It was quiet in the flat. John couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. What with the recent influx in Sherlock’s case load, Bart’s calling him in on a near-nightly basis, and Will’s decision that screaming was the most effective means of communication, Baker Street had been a revolving door of bedlam and high blood pressure for weeks. It almost didn’t seem real: sitting propped against the battered headboard with a book in hand and Sherlock’s back nestled against his legs. Even the monitor to the upstairs room was soft static and occasional snores. John glanced at it a moment and smiled.

‘We can probably get rid of that, you know. He’s figured out the stairs already.’

‘I like having it,’ Sherlock replied. ‘It’s our early alarm system.’

‘You mean so we’ll know if something’s wrong?’

‘No, so we’ll know we need to put on our trousers.’

John laughed, his left hand wandering into Sherlock’s curls as his right closed his book. ‘I think you just like listening to him sleep.’

He breathed a pleased sigh. ‘You are welcome to craft whatever theories you deem appropriate.’

John set his book on the nightstand. ‘That’s a “yes”.’ He slid further into bed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and pressing a kiss to the back of his neck. ‘Your secret is safe with me.’

‘Of course it is.’ Sherlock squirmed against him, settling his legs so that there wasn’t an inch of space between them. John smiled and nuzzled against his hairline.

He couldn’t say what possessed him to ask the question. Perhaps it was the soft, high sigh from the monitor on Sherlock’s nightstand. Perhaps it was the familiar weight in his arms or the long, slender fingers that knitted with his own. He only knew that a feeling of utter contentment washed over him and the words were out of his mouth before he had a moment to reconsider them.

‘Sherlock?’

‘Hm?’

‘Do you want to have a baby with me?’

Every muscle in Sherlock’s body went taut as the question settled over him. The grip on John’s hand tightened and Sherlock’s breath stalled. He swallowed. ‘I thought we were just talking about him.’

John licked his lips, pressing his nose to the base of Sherlock’s skull. ‘I meant another one.’

It took a moment for Sherlock to turn and look at him: brow furrowed, frowning, torn between confusion and curiosity. ‘Do you want another one?’

John shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ His mouth had gone dry. ‘Maybe not. Never mind.’

‘John.’ Sherlock rolled onto his back, propping himself up on his elbows. ‘You’re a terrible liar. You always have been.’

He felt his cheeks colouring. He realised that Sherlock was wearing his shirt. He barrelled on. ‘It seems a bit cruel, leaving Will an only child.’

‘I certainly would have benefited from it.’

‘Well, _I_ wouldn’t have. And you’d be lost without Sherr, we both know it.’ It didn’t fit him very well, the shirt. It was too big in the chest and shoulders and too short in the torso and an inch of perfect alabaster skin was peeking out between the edge of the cotton and the waistband of Sherlock’s pants and--

‘John?’ Their eyes met. Sherlock was smirking. That was never a good sign. ‘We can. If you want. I don’t know how we’ll go about it, but I don’t mind.’

‘You don’t mind or you actually want to?’

‘I don’t mind.’ He shrugged. ‘I hadn’t considered it before. It’s hard to have an opinion on something that’s never crossed your mind.’

‘I want to.’

‘Then we can.’

‘I want you to have it.’

Sherlock snorted. ‘You’ll have a hard time getting one out of me, John.’

‘No, I mean I want you to be the father.’

‘We’ll _both_ be the fathers.’

‘Yes, but I want you to be the _biological_ father.’ Sherlock ogled him. It got to be unnerving. ‘We’ve talked about the staring, you know. It’s still a bit creepy.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’ He shook his head hard, his eyes going back to John’s. ‘…May I ask why?’

John found himself rolling onto his back as well. His hand found Sherlock’s resting on the crisp sheet. ‘It’s stupid.’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘It might be.’

‘I think everything’s stupid.’

‘Can’t argue with that.’ He sighed and picked through his mind for the proper words. ‘I-- I want the chance to love your son the way you love mine.’

‘Ours.’

‘ _Mine in this context_.’ He shot Sherlock a look, scowling further at the impish leer. ‘Cheeky. I’m trying to be serious.’

‘You’re not very good at it.’

‘Well, stop stealing my clothes and maybe I will be.’

‘Hm. Doubtful. Also no correlation between the two.’ John glared. ‘Please continue.’

John rolled his eyes, unable to stop his own smile. ‘ _Anyway_ , I want to have that, though, that relationship with something that’s a part of you. I want to see a little you grow and learn and get into trouble. I want Will to have someone who understands how mental it is to grow up in this house.’ He sighed. ‘I want to actually be there for my baby. Since I couldn’t be there for Will.’

Sherlock’s head rested on his chest, his arms around him again, a damp kiss pressed to his throat. ‘I wish you would forgive yourself for that.’

He closed his eyes, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder. ‘I won’t.’

‘I know.’ He was quiet a long time. John sat up a little to watch him. ‘I think I’d like that.’

‘You do?’

He looked up and smiled, and John felt goose bumps crowd his arms. ‘I do.’

John pulled him close by the back of the neck, his lips finding Sherlock’s like it was second nature. A low purr slipped into his mouth and was swallowed. Those excellent fingers splayed across his side, slowly dragging up the hem of his shirt to tickle the skin underneath. He could feel Sherlock’s skin heating up, his breath hitch, his body shifting enough to climb over John’s leg and ease him into the bed, their lips a lazy tangle of tongue and teeth and soft noises.

A blood-curdling shriek sounded over the monitor. John’s head fell back with a groan. ‘That was nearly pleasant.’

Sherlock’s chuckle was husky and delicious, his lips ghosting over John’s throat. ‘And you’re sure you want another one?’

‘I must be a masochist. As we have discussed before. Speaking of--’ He pushed Sherlock off of him, pinning him at the hip and nipping his ear. ‘Don’t you dare move,’ he growled, and left Sherlock breathless as he made his way up the stairs to Will’s bedroom.


	2. The Second Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Proposal (noun; alternative definition)  
> The act or scheme of presenting or nominating (a person) for some position, office, membership, etc.

‘And you said yes?’

Sherlock rolled his eyes and set down his coffee. ‘Of course I said yes. I always say yes.’

‘But you’re okay with that?’

He shrugged, a smile tugging at his lips. ‘It’s John.’ How he continued to feel at all embarrassed by his own sentimentality at this stage in his life baffled him. He made a point of swirling his coffee and clearing his throat. ‘At any rate, I can’t be utter rubbish at it. William seems to be doing alright.’

‘Well, he’s only three.’

‘If it’s a terrible idea, you can tell me.’

‘I didn’t say it was a terrible idea.’ She smiled. ‘I think it’s a lovely idea, actually.’

He chose to ignore the colour rising in his cheeks. ‘We’ll have to find a donor first. John suggested hiring a surrogate, but I want to make sure we get the genetics right.’

She shook her head. ‘Of course you do. So you’re finding someone together?’

‘That’s the plan.’

‘Have anyone in mind?’

Sherlock fixed her with a long, steady look. She almost choked on her coffee.

‘What, _me_?’

He scoffed. ‘Of course you.’

‘You want _me_ to have your baby?’

‘I want you to donate an ovum to assist in the conception of my child, yes. You don’t have to carry it if you don’t want to.’ Her continued stare prompted the oft-ignored polite capabilities of his brain. ‘If that would be alright, of course. I wouldn’t want you to contribute if you weren’t comfortable with the idea.’ Her silence was making him edgy. He tried to be patient. He was dreadful at being patient. ‘Well? What do you think?’

‘I think you’re mad, but that’s nothing new.’ Her eyes turned to the milky contents of her cup, twirling her spoon as she considered the right response. ‘Do I have to give you an answer now?’

‘I’m in no rush.’

‘Is John?’

‘He can wait.’

She smiled, eyes still on her cup. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’

She could feel his eyes boring into her but she couldn’t look up. She was afraid she’d find softness in that gaze instead of curiosity and then, she knew, she wouldn’t make a rational choice. Part of her was furious he would even suggest such a thing. After everything she’d already done for him--the lies she had told, the secrets she’d hid, especially the ones she’d kept from John--this should be the final straw. But it wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t. 

This was every apology and thankyou she was owed.

Molly met his eyes then, stoic and imploring, needing confirmation of what she already suspected. ‘Why me?’

He smiled a little. If he had been another man, he would have taken her hand. It was funny how she’d learned to read him that way. ‘If I’m to father a child, I want the two best people in the world on my side.’

‘We’re always on your side.’

‘I know. And with John keeping it in check and you as its mother, it might stand a chance of not being a complete arse.’

She chuffed on a laugh. ‘I’m sure he’ll be perfect. And clever, of course.’

‘Why does _everyone_ assume it’ll be male? It might be a girl.’

‘With all of the boys in the Holmes family? I doubt it.’ She smiled. She looked as though she might cry. ‘Could we do it here? I’ve got everything we’ll need.’

‘I’d like that very much.’

He was beaming now, that odd, impish smile of his that tugged at her chest no matter how long she spent around him, how many of his asinine, foolhardy actions she witnessed. She twisted on her stool and thought. ‘I have one condition.’

‘Anything.’

‘I don’t want him to know it’s me.’

His brow furrowed. The grip on his cup tightened. ‘Molly--’

‘I’m not saying I won’t be a part of his life. You won’t get rid of me now, not if Will has anything to say about it.’ That seemed to decrease his concern a bit. She took a breath. ‘But he won’t be my son: he’s yours and John’s. And I don’t want to get in the way of that.’

‘You wouldn’t.’

‘You don’t know that.’ He didn’t argue; he couldn’t, really. She shrugged. ‘Maybe I’ll have my own someday. But for now, I’m just helping out my friends. Simple as that.’

‘What if he wants to know?’

‘That’s a long ways off. We’ll figure it out later.’

‘And you promise you’ll be around?’

‘Every Sunday, same as usual. Someone has to keep an eye on you.’

He nodded, the tension in his shoulders gone. ‘Alright.’ If he had been another man, he would have embraced her. If he had been another man, this would be a very different conversation. She smiled at the thought. ‘I can’t tell you how much this means to me.’

‘I know.’

‘It’s on your terms. Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here.’

‘I’m not ready yet.’

‘I know. That’s alright.’

‘Tell John he owes me for this.’

‘He’s already ordered flowers.’

‘It’s a bit more than flowers, isn’t it?’

‘He knows. It’s a start.’ He stood and flicked up his collar. She rolled her eyes. He smirked and kissed her cheek. ‘Take all the time you need.’

Molly turned back to her coffee, now cold and sludgy. She wondered what it might be like to have normal friends. She had to admit that the thought was not appealing.


	3. Fecundate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fecundate (verb)  
> Fertilise; make fruitful.

It would be several months before he received the text from Molly. _Tomorrow_ , it read. For all of the preparations they had made, Sherlock didn’t think he was ready.

Mrs Hudson offered to watch Will and they spent a lovely, unhurried morning together. John insisted on helping collect the needed sample, and as much as Sherlock whinged that this was completely unnecessary, he was beyond pleased at the prospect. They sat on the bathroom floor, John’s chest pressed against his back, his voice gruff in Sherlock’s ear as he explained in minute detail all of the varied and unseemly experiences he planned to inflict upon him in the coming days. Sherlock’s head fell into his shoulder, and he came with a throaty moan against John’s even strokes. John’s dexterity amazed him: not a single drop missed the small cup he had nicked from Bart’s. To show his gratitude, Sherlock pushed him to the floor and wrapped his lips around him.

John’s cheeks were still rosy when they climbed into the cab that would take them to Bart’s. It was a good look for him. Sherlock found he particularly enjoyed the way the colouration increased when he nudged John’s temple with his nose and kissed his cheek. John replied with a half-hearted grumble regarding common decency and public displays of affection that Sherlock was happy to ignore. His snub of John’s protestations was only encouraged by the warm hand that sat a bit higher than normal on his thigh. If he thought about it, the wave of affection he felt for John and, to be honest, most of mankind in the present moment would baffle him. He decided not to think about it, choosing instead to nip John’s ear and encourage his flush and creeping hand.

It was quiet at Bart’s: a rare occurrence for the time of day. They went in through the back door out of habit, John rambling about needing to pick up more shifts and the action sorely lacking in private surgeries. Sherlock listened and offered his condolences. He wasn’t sure why. But, well, it was John. Exceptions must be made.

It didn’t take any time at all to reach the lab. Molly was already inside, looking pale and more jittery than normal. Sherlock offered a tight-lipped smile while John gave her a hug and exchanged pleasantries that failed to go anywhere. He cleared his throat and sat down on a stool near the door. Sherlock tapped on the metal worktop and nodded. Molly pursed her lips. Her hand found the pocket of her lab coat and fiddled with the 50p left over from her lunch in the canteen. No one knew what to say.

At long last, Molly took a deep breath and set a Petri dish on the worktop. Sherlock’s gaze was unwavering.

‘Is that it?’ he asked. She nodded. They both studied it a moment, a small bit of plastic full of immeasurable biological power. Sherlock had to remind himself to breathe. He took great care to unbutton his coat, pulling a sealed cup from his inner pocket. He stood it next to the Petri dish.

She swallowed. ‘Is that--?’ she asked. He nodded. The plastic gleamed beneath the fluorescent light.

They looked at each other, twin bemused smiles on their faces, each wondering if this was really about to happen. It all made perfect sense when they thought about it. Midnight coffees and arguments over cooling corpses and frustrating Christmas parties; it was as if every moment between them over the past ten years had led to this. 

John slipped off his stool and swore. They both flushed and looked away, the moment shattered.

‘Right,’ Sherlock said.

‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘We should-- Hm.’

‘I agree.’

‘Suit up?’

‘Good idea.’ She shuffled away to gather supplies. He tugged off his coat and tried to clear his mind.

‘Everything okay?’

‘Yes, John.’

‘Only it seemed a bit awkward before.’

‘Nope.’ He fiddled with his phone.

‘Like…randy. Sort of.’

‘Why don’t you go down to the pub for a while?’

‘Wh-- Sorry?’

‘The pub. Across the road. Lovely chips. You should go there. Now. Shan’t be long.’

John stared at him. ‘You want me to pop down to the pub _alone_ while you try to conceive our child.’

‘Lestrade will meet you. He’s just texted me.’ Sherlock flashed him his phone screen.

‘ _I_ should grab a pint with _Greg_ while _you_ get Molly _pregnant_?’

‘While Molly and I fertilise her ovum with my sperm, yes.’

John stared. ‘Sorry, do you not realise how incredibly cocked up that is?’

‘Well, I wasn’t around when you and Mary--’

‘Well, _we_ weren’t together!’

‘Well…’

‘No-- Sherlock. That was _completely_ different.’

‘I don’t see why.’

‘Because I was married to her!’ 

‘…No, you weren’t.’

‘ _I was about to be_.’ Sherlock fiddled with his phone again. John seethed. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Telling Lestrade to meet you here. You clearly won’t see reason.’

‘Jesus-- Sherlock! Could you please just-- Are you _completely insane_?’

‘Not completely.’

‘Sherlock…’

‘The act deserves a bit of privacy, don’t you think?’

‘The _act_? What act? This looks like one of your experiments!’

‘Then why are you so averse to leaving me to complete it?’

‘Don’t be absurd.’

‘You said yourself it’s just an experiment. So why is it bothering you?’

‘I--’ He stopped and sighed. He counted to ten. ‘You may have a point.’

Sherlock’s hand found his hip. ‘John, darling--’ John’s cheeks flushed. He rolled his eyes on a huff. Sherlock smiled and pulled him close, dropping his voice into his chest where John seemed to enjoy it so much. ‘This morning? In the loo?’

He swallowed, forcing his breath to stay steady. ‘What about it?’

Sherlock bent to press a kiss to his neck. ‘There’s no one else who does that for me.’

‘I should think not.’

‘There’s no one else I’d _want_ to do that.’

He cleared his throat. ‘Which bit?’

‘Every bit.’ 

‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better?’

‘John?’

‘Yes?’

‘There’s no one else I’d do this for, either.’ He pulled back, searching John’s eyes. ‘Alright?’

He returned his gaze, taking his time to determine what he saw there. He nodded and looked away. ‘Yeah, okay. Fine. I get it.’

Sherlock pulled him close and kissed him. ‘I love you.’

‘You should.’ He took a deep breath. ‘At least it’s Molly.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I know how hard she’ll slap you if you try anything with her.’

Sherlock grinned and kissed him again. ‘We won’t be long.’

‘I know.’ He smiled a little. ‘Don’t be surprised if I’m into my cups when you see me.’

‘I’ll have Lestrade keep an eye on you.’ John nodded and pushed him gently away, leaving the lab just as Molly returned. She looked at Sherlock with wide eyes. He nodded. Her lip twitched on a smile.

‘Thank you.’

‘Of course.’

‘That must have been hard for you.’

‘It was nothing.’ He smiled and took a pair of gloves from her hand. ‘Shall we?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a medical professional and have only arm's length experience with pregnancy of any variety. I in no way guarantee that any of this is medically accurate or legally perfect. I have done quite a bit of research, but there's a huge difference between reading about stuff and being an actual expert. Please forgive any inaccuracies; they were not made with malice.


	4. Acquiescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Acquiescence (noun)  
> The reluctant acceptance of something without protest.

By the time Lestrade arrived at the pub, John was finishing his second pint and the world seemed at least a fraction rosier. Lestrade plopped on the stool next to him and ordered another round. ‘You know, if my old man were here, he’d say you were having female troubles.’

John snorted. ‘Was your “old man” Clint Eastwood?’

‘I think he fancied himself to be.’ 

‘He wouldn’t be too far off the mark. D’you know he spends more time in the bath than Mary did?’

‘Only because you’re in there with him.’

He barked a laugh and grinned. ‘Was he bragging again?’

‘Did he ever _stop_?’ The barmaid appeared and set two sloshing pints before them. Lestrade lifted his glass to John. ‘To your ludicrous young man.’

John grabbed his glass. ‘I’ll drink to the ludicrous bit.’ Their glasses chimed and they each took a long draught. 

‘So.’

‘He’s at Bart’s.’

‘I gathered.’

‘With Molly.’

‘As per usual.’

‘Trying to conceive our child.’

Lestrade coughed, thumping his fist against his chest to free the lager from his windpipe. ‘Pardon?’ John raised his eyebrows, head twisting to one side as he took another drink. ‘And you’re…what? Not invited?’

‘So it would seem.’

Lestrade stared at him for a long moment. John sucked a bit of foam from his bottom lip and turned to his friend, bemused and irritated and resigned. ‘And he--’

‘Of course he did.’

He nodded, his attentions turned to his pint. ‘I think you need another round.’

John let loose what could only be termed a giggle and his head fell to the bar. Lestrade gave his back a companionable pat and took another drink. ‘God… Why am I doing this, Greg?’

‘Because you’re a nutter.’

‘And he’s very good looking.’

‘Not really my area.’ He took another drink, the thought of Molly and Sherlock-- Well. Best not to think of it. His brow furrowed. ‘She’s not…carrying? Is she?’

‘God, no. That would be too weird. We have a surrogate.’

‘Ah. Mycroft?’ John rolled his eyes and nodded. ‘The benefits of having the government for an in-law.’

John choked on his beer. ‘We’re not married.’

‘Keep telling yourself that, mate.’ They drank in awkward silence for a moment, each admirably attempting to not think of the potential calamity that might be occurring just a few yards away. Lestrade took a large swallow, his lips smacking a little as he turned to the man beside him. ‘Think of it this way. For all of his…Sherlock-ness, you and I both know that there’s no one else in the world he has eyes for, right?’

‘I suppose that’s true.’

‘Right. So it’s cocked, sure, absolutely. But he’d never do something like that.’

John thought about this and nodded slowly. ‘You’re right. You’re absolutely right. Christ, I don’t know what’s gotten into me.’

Lestrade patted his back, offering his shoulder a fraternal squeeze. ‘I’m sure everything going on over there is just fine. And it would probably bore us both to tears.’

‘Yeah…’ He snorted a little, grinning at Greg. ‘It’s not like they’re shooting a porno or anything, right?’

***

‘Oh _god_ …’

‘Alright?’

‘Y--Yes. I’m brilliant, actually.’

‘You’re shaking...’

‘Of course I’m shaking! I can’t believe this is happening.’

‘Neither can I… What took us so long?’

She laughed, soft and breathy. ‘Okay. Slow now…’

‘Like that?’

‘Just like that. Oh… That’s it…’

‘There?’

‘Right there. Yes! God, you’re good at this…’

‘Beginner’s luck.’

‘Not how John tells it.’

‘He’s very complimentary.’

‘He should be. Oh! God, Sherlock…’

‘Oh my god...’

‘Perfect…’ She set down her pipette. ‘Great! Tea?’

‘Please.’ He tugged off his goggles, crouching low to squint at the dish. ‘Think it worked?’

‘We should know soon. Later this week, I think. But knowing you, you’ve already calculated that the odds are in our favour.’

He smirked. ‘All indicators point to us being genetically compatible, yes. But that isn’t a guarantee.’

‘Well, no. But it doesn’t hurt.’

‘Certainly not.’ He sealed the dish and took it in hand, using the utmost care to place it in the incubator Molly had cleared out for this very purpose. He shut the door, his gaze dwindling on the machine with an odd affection. Molly set a mug by his elbow and watched him a moment.

‘It’s weird, isn’t it? Thinking of what’s in there?’

‘It’s a basic cellular process. Any idiot can do it.’ He didn’t manage to sound as dismissive as he’d meant to, betraying a hint of wonder Molly had the grace not to mention. She smiled a little and sipped her tea as he toyed with his mug.

‘Did you find a surrogate?’

‘Almost. We have a few candidates.’

‘And the funds?’ He flushed. ‘Ah. Holmes Fiduciary.’

‘Mother wants grandchildren,’ he muttered.

‘She’s got Will, hasn’t she?’

‘Grand _children_. I’m afraid we got her hooked.’

‘I’m not surprised. Will’s enough to turn anyone on to children.’ 

He glanced at her over the rim of his mug, eyes shining in the slow steam rising from its contents. Something very much like pride coloured his cheeks. ‘Do you think so?’

She gave in to temptation and squeezed his arm. ‘You’re both doing a wonderful job. Really.’

Sherlock swallowed, very interested in the warm, sweet liquid in his hands. His voice had lost some of its usual roughness. ‘I’m glad you think so.’ He cleared his throat suddenly, setting his mug down on the worktop. ‘Speaking of, I’d best go rescue Lestrade before he tries to give me another ASBO.’

Her brow furrowed. ‘Shouldn’t it be John receiving the ASBO if he’s the one getting trollied?’

‘You of all people ought to know that if John’s “getting trollied”, as you put it, it’s almost certainly my fault.’ He grinned and kissed her cheek, sweeping out of the lab with his usual flair of wool and drama. She bit back a laugh and went back to her tea, her eyes finding the incubator and her smile growing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for this update taking so bloody long... Thank you for your continued excellence. <3


	5. Promulgation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Promulgation (noun)  
> The process of making (as a doctrine) known by open declaration.

As per usual, Sherlock’s calculations were correct. It took no time at all for Molly to text and report the fertilisation process a success. John spilled tea on himself at Sherlock’s delighted shriek, but his requisite reproach died on his tongue when Sherlock swooped in to snog him senseless. He was still smiling an hour later, watching in his periphery as Sherlock instructed Will on the finer points of embryogenesis and his father’s mastery of all varieties of experimentation.

Everything moved quickly after that. The final arrangements were made with their surrogate and Mycroft pulled the usual strings to ensure she was as comfortable and cared for as money could afford. John, to his credit, ignored this fact, instead busying himself with checking up on her condition and interrogating her obstetrician. Sherlock swirled off to the Yard to pick at the cold cases. He’d done enough events planning for a lifetime.

He’d known the conversation was coming. There was no way around it. Its inevitability, however, made it no less intimidating. But when John walked in the kitchen and cleared his throat to steel himself, Sherlock decided that his fears must be faced.

‘Next weekend.’

John paused for exactly seven seconds. ‘Pardon?’

‘You’re going to tell me that we need to tell my parents. Let’s go next weekend. Get it out of the way.’

He had to be smiling, at least a little. Otherwise the yelling would have started. ‘There’s a reason why people think you’re telepathic, you know.’

‘Idiots.’

‘Do you want me to get the tickets?’

He tapped a final flourish on his keyboard. ‘Already obtained.’

‘Did you tell Mycroft?’ 

‘No need.’

‘Ah. Of course.’ He turned, thinking of tea. ‘He’s not coming, is he?’

‘I wish he wouldn’t.’

‘That’s not a no.’

‘Sadly it is not. An excellent observation.’

John sighed, his potential beverage forgotten. Sherlock didn’t need to look up to know his brows would be furrowed, the corners of his mouth tight with the effort of resisting a frown. He idly considered biting John’s pouting lip just to see what would happen. ‘Well, I’ll have to give him credit for not outing us like last time.’

‘When did he-- Oh. That. He does have some self-control.’

‘Not much when it comes to tattling on you.’ Sherlock smirked at that. John’s bitterness toward Mycroft’s more obnoxious habits always made him smile. ‘I’ll call your mother, shall I?’

‘You won’t catch me doing it.’

He could almost hear John’s eyes roll. ‘I know you too well to believe that, Sherly.’ There was a tinny ring cut short and John stepped into the lounge. ‘Hullo, Cate! It’s John.’ He chuckled. ‘No, he didn’t light the kitchen on fire again…’

***

There were few places in the world that felt more comforting than the Holmes cottage. John wasn’t sure how that had come to be the case. There was something about its cookery smells, its tiny stairwells and spacious rooms, the intimidating glasses of gin that were deposited in his hand as he walked through the door that set him completely at ease. It meant Home and Safety and Potential Insanity in a way that his own parents’ house never could. Perhaps there were too many memories in Croydon. Perhaps there just wasn’t enough Sherlock there.

There was something about the Holmeses themselves as well, a bone-deep familiarity he’d felt even on their first official meeting. They were brilliant -- both of them, no matter what George seemed to think of himself -- and kind, full of embraces and smiles and coy inside jokes he didn’t realise had been established. Sherlock’s mother was a force in her own right: cheeky and loving, but deeply protective, daring anyone and anything to cross her or harm her children. George was softer in a lot of ways and kept to himself, outwardly submissive but more than capable of holding his own and taking control. John remembered how well he’d got on with Mary, her stories of his declaring them ‘the sane ones’. It made him smile to know how right George had been about their similarities, how Mary had never realised that, like her, George had his own set of state secrets and hidden talents.

John loved them. It was as simple as that. He loved their house, he loved their cookery, he loved their easy joy around Will. He loved the man they had raised. His bliss bubbled over and oozed into his extremities, and he couldn’t be bothered to chide Sherlock when he rolled his eyes and huffed about it. Let him whinge, John thought; there were much worse ways to feel about one’s maybe-potential-sort-of-long-term-in-laws.

He smiled to himself at the thought, leaning comfortably on the worktop as if he’d done as much every day of his life. It would be an odd situation to find himself in if he hadn’t long ago accepted that his life, as a general rule, was odd. Here he was in the kitchen of his…his _euphemism’s_ parents’ house, his euphemism’s mother chopping onions and chattering away, pausing only to offer him a top-off on his already daunting dram. The man in question was off somewhere in the gardens with their son and his father, wiling away the hours until the appointed time wherein they would announce the fact that they were a few short months away from unleashing another Holmes child ( _boy_ ) onto an unsuspecting world.

‘So when are you due?’

John snapped out of his reverie, his brow creased and mouth agape. ‘Pardon?’

Cate grinned. He knew that grin. That grin was a decidedly Not Good sign. ‘Will drew a diagram for me of the female reproductive system. Unless you and my boy have been up to I-don’t-know-what, I’d say he’s soon to be an elder brother.’

His recovery time was brief and ended in a chuff of laughter. ‘I swear to God, you’re all clairvoyant.’

‘No, I’m his mother. It’s much more useful.’

‘He has had a rather jaunty step of late, hasn’t he?’

‘He’s had that for most of four years now, dear.’

John’s eyes turned to the glass in his hand. He was absolutely not blushing. ‘We, uh. We just found out the insemination was a success. Mycroft found us a surrogate. She’s doing very well so far.’ 

He glanced up just in time to see a smile spread across her face, crooked and familiar. He yelped as she yanked him into a crushing hug, his drink splashing wildly. ‘Oh, John! That’s such wonderful, _wonderful_ news!’

He couldn’t help but chuckle, one arm wrapped around her as the other kept the tidal wave in his glass from splattering all over the clean lino. ‘We certainly think so.’

‘Just _smashing_! Oh, George is going to be _thrilled_!’ She beamed up at him, her eyes damp with tears. For a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of something else, some hidden sorrow buried underneath. She patted his cheek and pulled away, the moment gone. ‘We’ll give him the surprise of his life! Other than Sherlock, of course; he was quite the shock to us all.’ John chuckled at her conspiratorial wink and drained the last of his gin. ‘Be a dear and pass me that bowl. We’d better mash these potatoes so he doesn’t choke when he hears the news.’

***

It was several hours and far too many brandies later and Sherlock couldn’t sleep.

Dinner had gone well; better than he had expected. Mother already knew -- of _course_ she did -- but it did nothing to lessen her enthusiasm and the affection she bestowed on the both of them after their announcement. Father had simply sat agape: delighted and shocked and not quite able to believe it. Then the news sunk in and he was beside himself, grabbing Will in a fierce cuddle and kissing Mother senseless. The brandy had materialised and appropriate toasts were made. John’s hand had found his thigh under the table and offered a teasing squeeze.

And then it hit him. They were having a baby. He and John. Together. _Intentionally_. A tiny person with his genes, his intelligence, maybe even his personality.

What in God’s name had he agreed to?

Objectively speaking, there was no one in the universe less suited to child-rearing than Sherlock Holmes. No; there were two worse candidates, but he knew himself to be a close third. He had no patience, an unreliable attention span, a penchant for dashing off to dangerous situations with unstable people… How could he bring a child -- an _infant_ \-- into an environment like that? It would never be safe. It would never even know the concept of ‘safe’.

What if he was a terrible father? 

He had never considered it before. He wondered if he should have. When it came to Will, there had been no questions. Will had needed him -- _John_ had needed him -- and he did anything and everything to take care of his boy. There had been no time for second guessing. And once he’d had a minute to worry about it, he discovered that there was no need to fret when it came to Will. He was clever, brave, loving, far too impulsive for John’s liking, but that suggested its own list of positive attributes, like curiosity and ratiocination and improvisation. Will would be alright, and that had more to do with his own strength of character than anything Sherlock had done. 

This, however, was entirely different. Now Sherlock found himself staring at the ceiling -- _signs of water damage, no doubt the roof wants patching again_ \-- and theoretically losing sleep over a person that, for all intents and purposes, didn’t exist yet. It was illogical and it made his skin itch. 

No wonder Mycroft told him not to care. Bloody tiresome, caring. Not to mention the cause of several unpleasant physiological effects.

He glanced over at John, his back curved and shifting with his slow, even breaths. Perhaps in the morning they might discuss it, leave Will to torment Mother in the kitchen and go for a walk. That would be more agreeable than waking him now and shoving his inconvenient anxiety in his lap. Sherlock rolled to his side and curled around him, his arm slipping into the perfect gap at his neck. He closed his eyes and breathed in his scent: holy-grass and honeysuckle mixing with the usual blend of sandalwood, cedar, and home. John’s heart was beating too fast. Sherlock opened his eyes.

‘What did you expect, Sherly?’ he muttered, his fingers lacing with Sherlock’s where they rested on his belly. ‘You’re thinking loud enough to wake up the whole household.’

Sherlock bit back a smile. ‘I refuse to apologise for thinking. People do so little of it these days.’

John chuckled and rolled onto his back, peering up at him through the dark. ‘What is it, then?’

He considered saying nothing. That had been his plan, hadn’t it? These conversations were always easier in the light of day. But John was warm and open, his eyes soft in the dim light from the window, his vest clinging to his skin and highlighting every well-loved angle and curve. Sherlock sighed and snuggled into his chest, his voice little more than a whisper. ‘The baby.’

‘Yes?’

‘What if I do something wrong?’

‘You will.’ Sherlock levelled a glare at him. John shrugged. ‘Of course you will. I will, too. So did your parents and my parents and everyone else. In case you haven’t noticed, that’s a given when it comes to having children.’

‘But what if my mistakes are irreparable?’

‘Well, one of them will be, I suspect.’ He kissed Sherlock’s chin to soften the blow. ‘We’re going to make mistakes, love. We already have. That doesn’t mean we aren’t going to be good fathers.’

He frowned, but burrowed back into the crook of John’s neck. ‘Do you think we’re good fathers now?’

John chuckled. His fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. ‘I really do. And, even better, your mother does, too.’

‘Hm. Biased.’

‘And so am I.’ He bent to bury a kiss in his hair. ‘Do you want to know what I think?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock said and he meant it.

‘The fact that you’re concerned about being a bad father is a good sign you aren’t one.’

‘There is no evidence to substantiate--’

‘Alright, fine.’ John tugged him up to look at him. His gaze was soft, amused, with just a hint of exasperation. It was not an uncommon expression at this hour of the night. ‘I know you don’t trust your own judgment--’

‘With good reason.’

‘Your words, love; not mine.’ He brushed a curl away from Sherlock’s brow. ‘But I know you trust mine.’ He didn’t reply. There wasn’t any need. ‘And from where I’m sitting, there’s no one else I’d want raising my boy but you.’

Sherlock sucked on his lip. ‘Do you mean that?’

‘Of course I do.’ He kissed his brow. ‘I always do.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last!!! A new chapter! Thank you so much for your patience and for the notes of support you sent over. It's been a tough month, but things are looking up and my fingers have been itching to get writing. Hopefully there won't be such a dramatic delay between now and the next chapter. You are all so wonderful and I can't tell you how much I appreciate you. Yes. YOU.


	6. Debarkation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Debarkation (noun)  
> The state of disembarking.

Autumn arrived faster than anticipated, or at least it seemed that way. The year had raced past them in a flurry of colours and activity, in nursery school assignments, miles of paperwork, and its fair share of dead bodies. They had just returned to Baker Street from one of Lestrade’s many lectures, his treatise on Correct Procedure and Moral Execution of the Law still ringing in Sherlock’s ears. Will babbled in the background -- something about the unfair distribution of wax crayons in his nursery classroom. Sherlock was on the sofa, his hands obediently clasped between his knees while John swabbed at the recent graze to his temple, when realisation dawned.

‘It’s October,’ he announced.

‘It is indeed.’

‘The sixth.’

‘They don’t call you a genius for nothing,’ he muttered, binning the soiled swab and pulling the steri-strips from his kit. ‘You certainly didn’t receive the title for your knowledge of when to _duck_...’

Sherlock’s fingers circled his wrist. He waited for John to meet his eyes. ‘I almost forgot.’

John shrugged, the ghost of a crooked smile on his lips. ‘You always forget.’

‘Darling, you should have said--’

‘Sherlock. I’m not angry.’ He kissed his forehead. ‘But I will be _extremely_ cross if you don’t stop fidgeting.’

He did as instructed, allowing John to work in peace. He held out for almost two minutes. ‘We ought to celebrate.’

‘You’re fidgeting again…’

‘I mean it, John. We ought to do something.’

‘You don’t _like_ doing things.’

‘I like doing things with you,’ he smirked.

John stepped back, one brow cocked. ‘You do realise that our _four-year-old ___is in the kitchen?’

‘He’s heard worse.’ His pocket chirped. ‘Could you get that for me?’

John pulled off his gloves. ‘Ten years we’ve been together and you still want me to fish your phone out of your pocket.’

‘We’ve only “been together” four and I’m not to be fidgeting, am I?’

‘Because you’ve done such a bang-up job of that so far.’ He retrieved the mobile anyway and clicked through to the text. ‘Sherlock.’

‘Hm?’

‘Oh god. Sherlock--’

‘What is it?’

‘Sophie. She’s--’ He laughed, bright and manic. ‘We have to go. We have to-- Will!’ He flew into the kitchen. ‘No, don’t take your coat off, bug, we’re leaving!’

He watched as Will was hauled unceremoniously onto the sofa. ‘John, what’s going--’

‘Call a cab, would you?’ He fluttered through the lounge, tossing papers and drawings and grinning like mad. Will and Sherlock traded puzzled expressions. ‘Jesus, where did you put his--’ He crawled beneath the kitchen table. ‘Of course, how logical. Here, bug, toss this on--’ A loaded Babar knapsack sailed through the air. Sherlock snatched it just before it smacked Will in the nose. ‘Is my folder in there? Green one, loads of papers?’

‘For God’s sake, John--’

He shoved his wallet in his pocket. ‘Her water broke, you git! We have to go!’ He threw Sherlock’s scarf to him. ‘Sophie’s in hospital!’

‘Her water--’

‘It’s happening!’ John seized him by the cheeks and snogged him ferociously. By the time he pulled back, Sherlock was breathless and Will was giggling. ‘Sherly, it’s time!’ He was _beaming_. ‘It’s _finally_ time!’

***

It was _intolerable_ , Sherlock decided as he chewed on the newest inhalator from the stash in his pocket. Waiting rooms had clearly been designed by the Marquis de Sade and he was sick to death of them. He hadn’t _meant_ to snap at the gynaecologist, although it should be obvious to anyone with eyes that the man was completely incompetent and had no practical experience whatsoever when it came to gestational carriers. Even so, he had no interest in causing their surrogate any more stress than she must already be suffering at the hands of that imbecile. John must have known that, even if he did make a point of calling Sherlock an arse on a daily basis. He did seem apologetic as his hand found the small of Sherlock’s back and shoved him into the corridor, offering the amicable threat of, ‘You’re going to give the poor woman a heart attack. _Go sit down_.’

It was a small consolation, nicking the box of Nicorette from the nurses’ station along with several pens, a stapler, and an impressive number of pushpins. Molly had gotten him a coffee and forced a sizeable amount of egg-and-cress sandwich down his throat, and he’d settled into a brief haze of nicotine and irritated digestion.

But now Molly was gone -- called away to the morgue or perhaps just seeking asylum from his continued nervous vibrations. Will was beneath his long arm and dead asleep, a smear of jam and breadcrumbs on his cheek. Sherlock clamped the inhalator between his teeth and he wiped the mess off with his thumb. Even in his sleep, Will muttered his protest before snuggling in closer. Sherlock turned his attentions back to the waiting room wall.

He hated that painting. Hated it more than the bloody room or bloody waiting or bloody egg-and-cress sandwiches. It was huge and gaudy, the colours muted and cold and somehow still ostentatious. It looked like a funeral. He’d done battle with that same painting four years before, had been staring it into submission when John burst through the swinging doors with a breathless smile and a stuttered explanation of, ‘Sherlock! He’s-- Jesus, Sherlock!’ It was an ill omen and he wanted to burn it to a crisp.

In hindsight, these fantasies might be deemed A Bit Not Good for a father-to-be to dwell on in the waiting room of St Bart’s maternity ward.

Will made a small sound against his chest and his arm folded around him on instinct. He clicked the inhalator against his teeth and tried to think of something else. How long had he been sitting here: hours, days? He inventoried the number of cartridges he’d gone through on the inhalator. Two gone, a third currently between his lips. Not yet three hours, then. He swore under his breath. The whole process was too time consuming, too stressful. If John was at all interested in further experiments in parturiency, he could jolly well do without; Sherlock’s nerves couldn’t stand any more of this.

The door swung open for the thousandth time and his eyes flicked up, then widened. The woman at the door was familiar -- _a nurse from their delivery room, young but experienced, a happy partnership with an older man, she’d followed John’s instructions to the letter and he’d liked her right away_ \-- and smiling like a fool. He hefted Will into his arms and went to her. She looked like she might hug him.

‘Congratulations, Mr Holmes. They’re waiting for you.’

Sherlock felt a grin yanking at his cheeks. A small balloon seemed to be filling and stretching his chest. He stammered his thanks and she held the door for him as he hurried down the shining corridor.

Time stopped when he stood in the doorway. Will’s sugary breath fluttered across his throat. The curtains were drawn, a sliver of streetlamp peeking through the gap. Just now dawn. The fluorescents were still on, the ugly room slathered in harsh, industrial light. John sat on the bed, haggard and grinning in sickly green scrubs, enamoured with the tiny, red-faced bundle in his arms. Sherlock could’ve sworn his heart stopped beating.

He looked up then, joy and wonder crinkling his eyes, hair tousled, tears on his cheeks, and Sherlock had to stop himself from falling to his knees. Instead he stepped forward, slipping the inhalator into his pocket and settling next to John on the bed. Will shifted and curled around him once more. He drank in the scrunched face nestled against John’s chest, the crimson hand no bigger than a £2 coin peeking out of the white blanket. He reached over to touch it and it curled tightly around his finger. The balloon in his chest burst. John smoothed the tangled mop of Will’s hair.

Neither of them spoke.

John rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder and drew a long, shaking breath. Sherlock pressed a blind kiss to his nose. 

‘What do we want to call him?’

Sherlock’s voice sounded raspy and ill-used. ‘Let’s let Will decide.’

He chuckled. ‘We aren’t naming him “Eeyore”, love.’

‘Wouldn’t be Eeyore. Might be Paddington or Bilbo these days.’

‘I stand by my statement.’ John shifted, nuzzling into the side of his throat. ‘I’m not used to you being so quiet.’

‘I don’t have anything to say.’ He swallowed. ‘I don’t remember Will being this tiny.’

‘He wasn’t.’ He nudged Sherlock’s face, their eyes meeting. ‘Alright?’

Sherlock grinned. ‘A bit more than alright, John.’

John caught his lips, gentle and sucking, his fingers curling in Sherlock’s hair. His mouth opened like a morning flower, breath musty, lips dry, and it was the most delectable sensation on the planet. Happy tears pressed at his eyes, and Sherlock pulled back just enough to nuzzle at John’s face.

‘Do you know what time it is, darling?’

John chuffed on a laugh, his own voice crackling with tears. ‘No clue.’

‘Half six.’

John’s brow furrowed, his lips parted and ticking up at the corner. ‘Half six? We’ve been here ten hours?’

‘Indeed we have. Half six on the seventh of October.’

He laughed. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘I’m not.’ He kissed him softly. ‘Happy Birthday, John.’ John choked on a laugh, the sound wet with happy tears. They turned as one to the sleeping bundle in John’s arms. Sherlock brushed his fingers through damp, dark curls. He kissed John’s temple and murmured against his hair. ‘The happiest of birthdays to you both.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A THOUSAND thank yous for sticking this one out and waiting while I shifted through all of the crazy real-life things I have been going through. I already have a new story started and a bunch of ideas for one-shots to tide you over. You are all utterly fantastic and I want to hug each and every one of you. <3<3<3


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was done with this, but then enough commenters made jokes about the baby's name that I wrote an epilogue. I am fully prepared to blame the nearby school for this. Pure fluff. Pure, unadulterated, Parentlock fluff. I am not sorry.

_One Year Later_

‘But what if they don’t _like_ me at school?’

‘Why would you think that, bug? Everyone seems to like you.’

‘Tha’s nursery school. Primary’s different.’

John rolled his eyes. ‘And you’re the expert, are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think you’ve been spending too much time with your father again.’ He knelt down and adjusted the straps on Will’s rucksack. ‘It’s okay to be nervous. You know that, don’t you?’

‘’M not nervous.’

‘Of course you aren’t.’

‘’M no-ot…’

John grinned and kissed his forehead. ‘Tie your shoes, bug. I’ll go find your father.’

‘He’s in the bedroom.’

‘Getting dressed?’

‘No…’

‘Christ…’ He headed for the suggested space, sighing when he reached the doorway and the sight of a huddled lump in the middle of the bed. The baby grinned at him from its summit. ‘Sherlock.’

‘John.’

‘We have to go.’

How he managed to tunnel out and glare at his partner without sending their infant flying was beyond John, at least at so early of an hour. ‘Good. Let’s go; all set here.’

‘Trousers, Sherlock.’

‘Needless. I’m just coming home to shag you anyway.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘That is definitely not happening if you don’t put on some trousers. Now, preferably.’ Sherlock pouted and squirmed out of bed. The baby flopped on his back and giggled. John made a face. ‘Cor, never mind. You need a wash first.’

‘Unnecessary.’

‘What, because you’re just coming home to get dirty again?’

‘Not at all. Well, yes. But more importantly, this presents an accurate depiction to any potential usurpers. It’s all biology, you see.’

John wondered for the tenth time in the last two hours if he was going mad. ‘What the fuck are you on about?’

‘Scenting, John! Pheromones! Olfactory evidence that you are claimed!’

Perhaps Will had snuck something into his morning cuppa again. Yes, that may be a suitable explanation. ‘Are you suddenly paranoid that one of the _mothers at Will’s school_ is going to try and get a leg over on me?’

‘Or fathers. Perhaps a teacher. You’re quite a catch, John; you seem to be unaware. I doubt the rest of the world is so oblivious.’

He found himself wishing that whatever Will had used had been a touch stronger; it seemed to have plenty of hallucinatory effects without a shred of euphoria attached to it. He shook his head. ‘No, I’m not doing this today. You have a shower and you have it now or we are leaving without you and you aren’t getting anything from this particular “catch” for a week.’

‘But, John--’

‘And I _will not hesitate_ to increase that to a fortnight. I mean it, Sherlock.’

Sherlock pouted but, miraculously, did as he was told. He was showered and dressed in three-and-a-half minutes, looking more polished than John could manage in under forty. He tried not to sulk as the four of them crowded into the back of a cab and sped toward Will’s school. The baby patted his head and cooed consolingly.

The schoolyard was crowded with squealing children and huddled parents. A lone teacher attempted to herd the students inside. Will tumbled out of the cab and stilled. 

John crouched next to him. ‘Hey.’ The boy turned, his blue-green eyes wide and terrified. ‘You can do this. Alright?’ He took a moment to nod. ‘Just another day like any other. Just another puzzle. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ he whispered.

‘You’re going to meet some new people and make some new friends, and you’re going to come home and tell Dad and me all about it.’

‘Okay.’

‘And then you and Dad can sort out who’s left-handed and ate toast for breakfast by which way their shoelaces are tied and make me mental.’

He bit back a shy grin. ‘Okay.’

‘Okay.’ He kissed his cheek. ‘Give ’em hell, bug.’

‘Okay.’ Will turned to find the baby plopped on the pavement at Sherlock’s feet, peering up at him. ‘You’ll watch ’em for me, won’t you, Mish?’ Hamish grinned and giggled. ‘Don’t let Dad eat my biscuits, okay?’ He grabbed Will’s pointing finger. Sherlock muttered something about _conspirators_ and _lack of corroborating evidence_ that Will made a point of ignoring. John stifled a laugh. He thought he saw Sherlock smirking out of the corner of his eye.

‘Off you go, darling,’ Sherlock rumbled. Will looked up at him and smiled brightly. He was across the schoolyard in a blink. John took a breath. 

‘He’ll be fine, John.’

‘I know he will.’

‘They’ll both be fine.’ 

John chuckled and scooped Hamish from the pavement. The baby squirmed in his arms until his thin black curls were tucked against his throat. John took hold of Sherlock’s scarf and pulled him down for a kiss. ‘Of course they will. They’ve got you.’ He turned and headed back toward Baker Street, blowing a raspberry against Hamish’s cheek. The baby shrieked and tugged at his jumper with glee. ‘What do you think, bean? Should we pick up more biscuits for your dad? I don’t think Will’s stand a chance otherwise…’

He could feel Sherlock’s smile on his back for half a block before he came back to the world and raced to catch them up.


End file.
